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are Great
    N ext thing I know, Henry Slate is driving me to some soundstage in Hollywood. Slate’s not my manager, but he’s acting like he is. That’s fine with me. I’m tense and don’t mind the company. Apparently, Robert Wise, a big-time director, wants to audition me for the new Clark Gable movie, Run Silent, Run Deep , that costars Burt Lancaster, who’s also the producer. They say it’s a submarine thriller. As a Navy man, I’m perfect for the role. As an insecure newcomer to Hollywood, I’m a nervous wreck.
    We walk into a soundstage the size of an airplane hangar. I’m feeling as big as a Planters peanut. The place is pitch-dark except for a work light in the middle of a stage. This isn’t an audition; this is a bad dream.
    I might as well be on the moon. I’m holding the script, my hands are shaking and there’s barely enough light to see the words. I ask if Mr. Gable is present. Mr. Wise doesn’t answer me. All he says is, “Please read the lines.”
    I’m a seaman on the bridge with the captain. The captain is Gable.
    “The boat’s in trouble, sir,” I say. “Should we fire the guns?”
    The captain is supposed to reply, but where’s the captain?
    Suddenly, out of nowhere, a booming voice bounces off the walls and hits me in the face: “TAKE IT DOWN…DIVE, DIVE, DIVE!”
    The voice belongs to Clark Gable. I can’t believe it. My dialogue disintegrates into “Blah-blah-blah.” I look into the darkness but don’t see Gable. I just hear his voice. I’m confused and excited. Where the hell is he? I’m completely out of whack. Is Gable really talking to me?
    “Did you hear my orders, seaman?” asks the disembodied Gable.
    Again, I go into “Blah-blah-blah.”
    Wise stops me and says, “Take it easy, son. Just look at the script and say your lines.”
    Somehow I do it. And get back into the rhythm of the dialogue.
    Next thing I know, Wise is saying, “Good, Rickles, we want you for this role.”
    I’m still wondering how all those Blah-blah-blahs got me the part.
    Another week passes before I actually meet Gable face-to-face. Before that, Burt Lancaster, a serious man, says to me, “This is a serious movie, Don. You really need to know about submarines. It will help you in your character development if you know the intricate workings of the submarine.”
    Burt says all this as if we’re about to be ordered to our battle stations.

    Meanwhile, Gable is one of the most relaxed movie stars in the history of the business.
    “Look,” he tells me, “I’m a five o’clock guy.”
    “What does that mean, Mr. Gable?” I ask.
    “It means, kid, that my day ends at five. Regardless. Five is scotch-and-soda time. And then I’m on my way home.”
    Every day at five, Gable sticks to his guns. Five o’clock comes and he’s in the trailer. He enters as a Navy commander and exits as a Brooks Brothers model. Driving off the lot in his Bentley convertible, he waves goodbye as he passes through the security gates.
    Because he’s a producer of the picture, Lancaster is far more intense and worries about overages.
    Back in those days, most of the action isn’t done on location but is manufactured right there in the studio, smoke-and-mirror style. One scene involves a series of explosions followed by a deluge of water. The mechanics are tricky and the technical guys work on it all day. They can’t quite get it right. Finally, at about five to five, it all comes together—the bombastic explosions and a deluge of water. Gable and I are in the battle scene, the climax of the film. Robert Wise signals action and all hell breaks loose. The special effects are spectacular.
    In the midst of this drama, Gable says, “Sorry, boys, Mr. Five O’Clock is done for the day.”
    And then, with all the grace of a European prince, Gable struts to his trailer.
    Lancaster chases after him.
    “Clark,” says Burt, “we finally got this thing to work. It’ll cost a fortune if we dismantle it. We gotta film it